


Sun-girl

by Kyrgwayne (Noruard), Noruard



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: A shade of Death and the Maiden, A shade of Hades and Persephones, Angst, Canon Compliant, Expanded Universe, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Introspection, Jedi Training, Missing Scene, No Smut, Sith Training, Somewhat Dark!Rey, They are big bad and angry, Underlying eroticism, a good lot of violence, other character only mentioned
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-20
Updated: 2016-03-20
Packaged: 2018-05-27 20:47:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6299803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Noruard/pseuds/Kyrgwayne, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Noruard/pseuds/Noruard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He had caught glimpses of a wide ocean- a blue, pelagic forest of luxuriant crests, stabbed into monsoons-swollen clouds, white like the candid vests of the woman who once called him my little Ben.<br/>And indeed he had been, until his mother's brown eyes had turned both dark and cold, and she had judged him, for in his veins ran the blood of a Solo and, once again, family felt like a curse.<br/>Leia had loved her husband, fiercely: yet, when grudge had tainted each memory with its poison, Ben Solo too had been charged with the same guilt of his father- to be honest, he never knew which kind of guilt, but he was sure things must have gone precisely this way.<br/>He had  felt desperate and lonely, through those endless, innumerable days, none of which could be longer or duller than a bare notch carved in a wall, when he marked the time that passed between his father's rushed departures and his encreasingly rare and brief returns.<br/>Had he grown up under the sun- within the sun-, sinking into seas of sand, living on charity and digging scrap like a diver, but with Rey at his side, things could have been different.<br/>Perhaps, his feet would  have never threaded the Reproachful Path.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sun-girl

**Author's Note:**

> Well, well, well. Where should I start? This fic is basically a translation of my work, since I am Italian. Whilst I have already written in English (and I still have to finish what I started), I had never attempted a translation. It is a faster work, but twice as hard. I have not been practicing my English for a while, so please feel free to correct (this fic is unbetaed, I am the beta of myself, which has its obvious flaws). I hope my style is decent and clear: I am pretty good at handling a dense style in my mother tongue, but, as presumable, the same cannot be said for another language.  
> As for the fic, there seven of nine chapters have been aleady published: I will be slow in translating, due to the fact I have limited access to the pc, but the work is done, so there should not be problems.  
> The story starts where we left Kylo almost dead on the collapsing Starkiller base: the first three chapters are more in-depht character POW, the left ones are new stuff you have not seen on the screen...and perhaps never will. Tanks for your attention, I hope you will enjoy the read and remind that feedback/ criticism/ editing are always welcome here ^^

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Sun-Girl stared at him from across the big dark wound.  
The air around her laid still, fixed in a crystal-clear radiance- even now, in the clamour of avalanches, under the tempest of uprooted trunks, a storm of dirt and dead leaves whipping the air in its impetuous crash.  
That blade of hers, of an ultramarine quality of blue, knew no waver: as for his one, she had tamed him till he submerged it in the snow, the blade still throbbing and shaken by a thunderous hum- like sworms of wild hornets.

 

Then, the Sun-girl swirled- she turned her back, straightening her lean, meager shoulders in almost regal determination- so similar to the way he had seen his mother rise, so many times, so many years before.  
She ran away: the whole world was nothing but a unique, dreadful roar- a vaste, parched-edged chasm. The whole world was nothing but the lash impressed on his face, and the burn of the laser on his back- and the blaster, too, digging in his flesh like a mouse, so dangerously close to his vital points.  
He longed to curl up on a flank and lay, a bare bundle of blood, waiting, until even the last cluster of  roots and mud would sink in an ocean of lava.  
Be a child, again, in the cradle of Death- _that would feel...reassuring, sun-girl._  
Yet, he was far too weak- his body reduced into a limp, lukewarm prison that grew more and more impatient as he attempted to elicit any kind of response, like a small, frightened briar beast, thrown into an outsized cage.  
He would roll on his side in a while, very soon; sleep was creeping through his veins, burdening his eyelids, and along with sleep, the end would come, he thought, full of gratitude.

 

Probably, **_he_** would have  drawn renewed vigour from his wounds- **_he_ ** would have known how to bring the Sun Girl back; how to stand up, how to resume the fight.  
But a dying man should not mourn; he should not lie, that man, not when he is alone with himself, dropped right in the eye of the storm.  
_Enough with all those lies, Knight of Ren, Thunder-Boy: you will never be like **him** , you will lack time and, perhaps, you would have lacked the strenght._

 

 

_My face. It burns._

 

Snow felt desirable, just as, perhaps, in her dreary  interstellar desert, the girl had longed for fresh water to run on her sun-scorched lips.  
Ben Solo- but he would never have called himself such, if he could- laid his fingers over the trembling soil.  
Snow molded gently at his touch: melting, he thought, warmed as it was by the heat slowly deserting his limbs.  
All around him, the slush was stained with a mixture of blood and footprints, many of which intermitted with faint trails of sand:  tiny grains, carried through the galaxies by the worn boots of a little girl.  
He stretched an arm to grasp the ground, enduring the pain, until he sensed ice crunching in his knuckle; under the gloves, his nails grew sore for the effort, digging into more compact matter.  
His fist contracted and he draw it to the face: right at the core of his black palm glowed a tiny, white clot.  
He applied it on the wound, puffing hard through his lips to quench a whimper- one of pain or, perhaps, of relief.

  
_My lips. They burn._

  
Sweat condensed in frozen beads on his forhead and all over his hair.

 

Shaken by convection, the cold wind burst into torrid gusts, raising either from the rifts in the planet crust or, likely, from the Base.  
All night long had the Starkiller been flaring through the shadows, nesting somewhere across the vent: even now, the explosions tore the sky into scarlet cuts.  
_Speaking of which_ : apparently, the bleeding at his side had come to a halt.  
_It won't last much longer: run, girl, pick up your little traitor and the monkey-man, fly through the flames you sparked with your very hands._  
_Go to her, and tell her what I have done; tell her to give up and set me free._  
_Tell her the princess seats alone in her fortress, now._

 

He withdrew his hand and gazed at the pulp of mixed slush and blood: a flap of burnt flesh had detached from his cheek and now dangled from his fingers, thin like a spiderweb, a gruesome lacework on the glove's leather.  
He had always been seduced  by  the physical aspects of reality: the stiffen, starched gowns Leia worn, those few times she indulged in more feminine garments; fuel and oil plastered with sweat on his father's shirt; the fragrance of salt and soap on the coarse cape Luke used to wrap himself in, and that trace of burnt bakelite, spreading through the air even after the glowing blade had subsided, fluttering like a deadly moth.  
And the skin, too- his father's was rugged, itchy with a precociously silver-grey beard; Leia's was silky, intead, but just due to those fancy powders she smudged on her face: they exhaled a faint perfume that eventually permeated both her clothes and his own- at least, as long as he had spent most of his time between those arms.  
The monkey-man was smooth and warm: there had been a time when it had a name, he remembered: Chewbacca; back then, the creature used to carry him on his shoulder.  
Closer to the stars, elevated from the ground- a small child of the humans on the shoulders of giants.  
The girl had left her trail on the hem of his gloves- on the cloth of his dark robes.  
Her scent felt like a constellation of many, different perfumes: his senses sharpened by pain, he might track them one by one.  
On his wrist, droplets of their battle-mixed sweats exhaled an acrid smell- scent of blond, young-aged skin, dirty by labours and travelling-torn: it was the fluid of a body ground by thirst.  
On his fingers, where he had gripped her, he traced her blood. It felt like rust- slightly bitter.  
Ben Solo, or what was left of him, sucked his lips; his own blood flew in small drops: it tasted far sweeter than hers had.

 

The child was fair and golden in her face, and brown-haired- as brown as trunks in a virgin forest.  
The colour of her eyes wondered through unknown lands,  lingering on the borders betwixt earth and vegetation.  
Then, those eyes had mirrored the red reflections of his blade, and darkly they shone, as dark as the universe- and oh so fervent: two beacons, flickering across deep, star-like old waters.

  
  _R-e-y._

  
The name was buried in her head, along with many other things: blinding, golden glowing sweeps, giants made of iron and stone, and purple-hazed suns, and endless twin-born days, none of which was longer or duller than a bare notch carved in the slate with a metallic tip.  
Back then, in the room where the interrogation had taken place- and right now, above each thunder, he thought he could amost hear the croak of a graver scraping, as industrious as a cricket, on the black surface of a stone.  
Sometimes, the scratching resounded in the uttermost quiet, and sometimes with the only counterpoint of the wind over violet dunes in the sunset.  
Rey's mind was stuffed with sun, and endlesness, and despair.  
If only she had listened to him, instead of throwing herself at her enemy's flaws, like the eager little scavenger of the sands she was, trained to catch the slightest gleam of  gold within a pile of trash...  
Blood of his own blood.  
A flare of tremors, and then a hiss: the clearing collapsed few feet downward.  
There was a sensible peak of heat: magma was mounting from the core.  
He managed to roll on the right, mercylessly pressing on his ribs.  
Nausea overpowered him for a while, and reddish trickle of vomit poured on the snow in a small, copper-smelling pound.

 

Ben Solo- for now none else was left in the woods but himself, grinned, and what a monstrous grimace must be, he thought: the skin stretched, as if, all of a sudden, there was too little of it to cover the whole of his face.

 

_Sun-girl...so much water in such a little head!_

 

He had caught glimpses of a wide ocean- a blue, pelagic forest of luxuriant crests, stabbed into monsoons-swollen clouds, white like the candid vests of the woman who once called him _my little Ben_.  
And indeed he had been, until his mother's brown eyes had turned both dark and cold, and she had judged him, for in his veins ran the blood of a Solo and, once again, family felt like a curse.  
Leia had loved her husband, fiercely: yet, when grudge had tainted each memory with its poison, Ben Solo too had been charged with the same guilt of his father- to be honest, he never knew which kind of guilt, but he was sure things must have gone precisely this way.  
Eventually, and oh so easily, he had been trapped into the frenzy of their perennial feuds, bound to them because of parental bonds: for, of course, he was blood of their blood.  
He had  felt desperate and lonely, through those endless, innumerable days, none of which could be longer or duller than a bare notch carved in a wall, when he marked the time that passed between his father's rushed departures and his encreasingly rare and brief returns.  
Had he grown up under the sun- within the sun-, sinking into seas of sand, living on charity and digging scrap like a diver, but with Rey at his side, things could have been different.  
Perhaps, his feet would  have never threaded the Reproachful Path.

 

Now, the only blood that could stir in him a yet remote sense of belonging was  other people's blood- the blood he spilled on bare dirt and on his own hands: the blood of the deads.

 

 


End file.
